


indefinable

by PaintedVanilla



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Married Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 14:36:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17082158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaintedVanilla/pseuds/PaintedVanilla
Summary: House can hear Wilson getting ready for bed; he can hear him brushing his teeth, undressing, being unusually quiet. Normally there’s a humming; a breathless energy that House won’t admit to loving about him. He doesn’t hear it tonight. It’s dead silent.





	indefinable

Wilson gets home later than House; it’s not an unusual phenomenon. But maybe it is tonight, seeing as it’s nearly two a.m. and their apartment is silent and dark as he locks the door and hangs his coat up.

House won’t admit to waiting up for him. He’ll pretend to be asleep when Wilson crawls into bed and he’ll pretend to be indifferent when Wilson wraps his arms around him and folds against his back and he’ll pretend not to know about the little kisses Wilson will press to the back of his neck before he drifts off himself. 

House can hear Wilson getting ready for bed; he can hear him brushing his teeth, undressing, being unusually quiet. Normally there’s a humming; a breathless energy that House won’t admit to loving about him. He doesn’t hear it tonight. It’s dead silent. 

The bathroom light turns off, and House can feel Wilson’s presence in the doorway. He doesn’t give any indication that he’s awake. He wouldn’t want Wilson knowing that he waited up; he can’t have him thinking he cares  _ that  _ much. 

“Greg?” Wilson asks, from the doorway.

Uh, oh. First names. Wilson only talks like that when they’re having a moment. House doesn’t know if he’s in the mood for a moment tonight, so he continues to feign sleep.

“Greg.” Wilson says, a bit more stern; his voice sounds incredibly shaky, “I know you’re awake.”

House can’t help himself, he takes the bait, “How could you know I’m awake?”

Wilson doesn’t budge from his spot in the doorway, so House finally shifts and looks over his shoulder at him. They meet eyes, and it’s hard to see in the darkness, but it looks like Wilson has been crying. 

House sighs, “Did you have a nightmare?” he asks, teasingly, “Do you need to come get in bed with daddy?”

“I could do without it tonight.” Wilson says shortly. Truth be told, he could do without it  _ every  _ night, but House knows he’ll only ask if he really needs it. 

He concedes, “Come get in bed.”

Wilson finally moves forward. He lifts the covers and crawls under them and House turns over so he can draw his husband into him. Wilson wraps his arms around him and presses his face into his chest and they stay like that for some time. It’s peaceful, and House will admit that as long as no one can see them, he likes it. 

He has to stop himself from asking  _ who died?  _ because he knows all that will get him is a withdrawal from their current position and an angry husband. Instead he selects his words with a little more care than he usually uses, “What happened?”

Just a patient, Wilson laments. A patient who was eight years old and who kept him up all night at her bedside, right next to her parents, as she died. House hates himself for finding the story boring. He’s not listening; he keeps telling himself he should be, his husband is upset and he needs to listen to him talk about it, but it’s so predictable. House knows this formula like the back of his hand, and he knows that it’s boring. 

Surely he wouldn’t feel that way if his own eight year old patient died while House was sitting next to her. But, no, House knows he wouldn’t feel the same. Her death would be interesting, at least. And caused by a mystery that would drive House insane, based on the fact that in this imaginary scenario his patient would only be dying if he couldn’t figure out what was wrong with her. Would House go home and cry about it? Maybe, but it’s not like he’d be rushing to let Wilson see him in such a state. 

“Are you listening?”

House blinks; this is a tricky question. The answer is usually no, and the result is usually an empty bed.

House tightens his grip on his husband; he doesn’t want him to leave because he’s warm, but he also knows Wilson needs the support right now, “I’m trying to.”

Wilson sighs deeply, but he makes no moves to get out of bed. There’s another long moment, and House even makes the conscience effort to rub little circles on Wilson’s back.

Then Wilson says, “She killed herself.”

House frowns, “Your patient?”

“Her mother.” Wilson elaborates, “Her daughter died and she left to go to the bathroom. Then twenty minutes went by and she hadn’t come back, so I went with the husband to find her. Neither of us wanted to be alone.”

He’s quiet for a long time, “We found her on the roof.”

House goes in double time with those little circles on Wilson’s back.

“And he just started… wailing. Screaming. Got down on his knees over her. Made me check for a pulse. Kept begging me to try to resuscitate her. But she was… she was dead. I couldn’t fix it.”

House’s curiosity is killing him; he wants to know how she did it, but he bites his tongue. Instead he waits for Wilson to say what’s really on his mind.

He looks up at him, “It made me think of us.”

House stops the little circles, “Why?”

“Because I’m… an idiot.” Wilson says quietly; he shifts so he can be eye level with House, laying next to him. They’re still holding onto each other, “I just thought to myself, if I… saw you. Dead, so obviously dead, beyond resuscitation, beyond my control, I would… still try to find a pulse. I’d  _ try _ to bring you back. And then I would just sit there, crying like that’s going to fix it.”

House is hesitant, “I’m not going to kill myself.”

“You’ve been shot before, Greg.” Wilson snaps, “You’re about as reliant on Vicodin as you are on oxygen. I’d have to use both my hands to count your near death experiences. I’m not worried about your intent, I’m worried about anyone else’s. I’m worried about  _ accidents,  _ I’m worried about - ”

“James.” House says softly; Wilson immediately stops.

House isn’t sure what to say to him. How to convert the feeling in his chest into words that he would feel comfortable saying out loud. Half the things Wilson makes House feel, he doesn’t even feel comfortable thinking in his head. Instead, House leans forward and kisses him. It’s more tender than the sorts of kisses they usually exchange, and Wilson accepts immediately. He pulls House just a little bit closer and kisses him back, before he breaks it, “I - ”

“I love you.” House has to beat him to it. He can’t just be on the reciprocating end right now; he can’t let Wilson think he’s just saying it back to be polite, like this is a game.

Wilson lets out a breath, and House can feel him completely relax against him, “I love you, too.”

Another array of indefinable feelings blooms in House’s chest, so he explains them with another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for tedding my talk


End file.
